Dear Life
by Groundis
Summary: You can never love somebody as much as when you've lost them. And she had nothing to lose.


The sounds of heavy darts sinking into an abused, ancient dartboard. The sharp crash of a mug, the subsequent tinkling of glass shards across the floor, and the inevitable trailing cheers of inebriated onlookers. The slurred barks of drink orders from across the bar, and the volleyed indecipherable confirmations of the barkeeps, all dolled up with too much cheap fur dye and obscenely low-cut tops meant to wring every last credit out of their space-scum patrons. Krystal took a long pull from her own drink at an isolated end of the bar, where the light above her flickered every few seconds, and the brooding aura she exuded had cleared a small, lonely space around her in the otherwise packed pub. She huddled over her drink like a stranded arctic explorer would huddle over their fire for warmth, for desperate life. The vixen heard the uproar all around her, but she didn't listen to it. After minutes of sitting in solitary silence, she brought the cup to her lips, swallowing the putrid chemicals inside.

She shuddered as the bitter drink clawed down her throat. Her spine tingled instinctively, having to bite back every natural reaction that tried to spit back up the alcohol that was barely better than a poison. And yet, it still wasn't strong enough to forget. No matter how terrible the taste was, it couldn't even begin to be a drop of pain in the excruciating ocean that swam in her heart every second, every moment. He had once said that her eyes were so alive, flashed and sparkled with a vivaciousness that rivaled Lyla itself for sheer intensity and exuberance. All trace of that vixen had been ripped apart and incinerated on that terrible day. Now, when she caught a fleeting glimpse of her reflection in one of the smudged brass fixtures of the pub, all she saw was a glazed, dull, dead pair of eyes staring back at her. She looked away, unable to hold her own gaze for more than an instant. Another drink. She made a vague motion towards one of the barkeeps, and in moments another vile container of alcohol appeared in front of her. The fox downed it with more ease this time, slowly feeling the lucidity being drained from her mind with every shot that she drained from its glass.

She set the cup down with a soft click. Her hand stayed grasped around it for a long minute, however, as she did little more than stare at the spider web of cracks on its surface uncomprehendingly. Her eyes traced the lines over and over again, but like everything else, it held no answers for her. After minutes, maybe hours, of holding it purposelessly in her eyes, her off hand instinctively fished for her breast pocket. Her sensitive ears heard the velcro rip open on her vest, and without her knowledge, consent, or interest, her hand brought out a small, bent, crumpled piece of laminated paper. It took burst of feeble effort to focus her eyes on the picture on its front. A group photo of her old team.

In the months after… after it happened, she hadn't been able to look at this picture without breaking down into open, hysterical sobbing. Now though, after a year of pointless wandering to file away at her acuity, after seeing this picture so many times, it didn't hurt anymore. Or at least, it couldn't hurt more than what she already carried in her heart. There he was, grinning that goofy smile that she had loved so much, standing just a hair shorter than her when she stood on her toes. He was still alive and happy. Still in love. Still her love. Fox's sharp green eyes didn't face directly towards the camera, wandering slightly to the side to meet her own devilish glance. There he was. Alive. Happy. In love. The words had slipped through her mind so many times, they'd lost all meaning to her. She couldn't remember what his voice sounded like. She couldn't remember his scent, the taste of his lips, or the feeling of his fur in her fingers. But she'd never let herself forget his face. His handsome, perfect face. The face of the only person who meant happiness, ease, and home. He was her home, her family. And now he was gone. Her home was gone.

Devoid of feeling or purpose, her vision drifted over to the other two people in the picture. A tall avian, and a pink feline. Their image still fanned the embers of a dying flame deep in her gut. Vaguely, Krystal heard the glass she was clutching in other hand rattling against the table, and she looked over to see her hand shaking, ever so slightly. She let go of the glass. Falco and Katt. Like everything else, her senses had been dulled to this picture over time. Before, seeing their pictures had made her scream and shout obscenities until she passed out blinded by tears and exhausted by hatred. They had let him die. Those two had turned tail and run like cowards, leaving Fox for dead, to burn at the hands of Andross while they saved their own skins. Even those words did little more than stir her loathing in its barely conscious slumber. They would die. She would kill them. She would kill them for taking her home away. It wasn't something she felt deeply about anymore - she had simply told herself so many times that it had become fact in her head.

Krystal stared at the picture mutely for another eternity, the hectic, rowdy world around her unimportant, lost in her shaking hand, her empty glass, and her picture. The world had a way of forcing its way into her life at bad times, however. Krystal didn't flinch when a heavy palm thumped down on the bar in front of her, asserting itself into her solemn bubble without her permission or desire. She tried to ignore it, but the person it was attached to wasn't so gracious.

"Hey there, honey," the voice slurred from behind her. "Something pretty like you oughta have someone like me to show you a good time." Krystal didn't move to respond. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she subconsciously processed the voice, getting a good idea of the male it was attached to without needing to look. Young. Stupid. Reckless. Over-confident. Drunk. Her telepathy, dulled though it might have been, confirmed her deductions a moment later. The vixen waved for another drink, and had it to her lips a moment later, heedless of the person trying to get her attention. However, he seemed to have no intention of taking no for an answer. A moment later, she felt her stool swiveling underneath her, the man's second hand forcing her chair around to face her. He was a large wolf in his mid-twenties, dressed in excessively dark and ripped clothing, tattooed and adorned with dozens of gang insignia. He gave her a confident smirk, which she only met with the same blank stare she'd given everyone else for the past year.

"C'mon babe, don't be like that," he started, moving in close enough to her for his sour breath to wrinkle her nose. "Let me buy you a drink. Then we'll go back to my place, and you can repay me there. That sound like fun?" he asked, his voice condescending, his posture dominant. Krystal only blinked.

"Go away," her voice came, raspy, empty. She hadn't realized she was going to say anything at all, but that response suited her well enough. Krystal turned back to her drink, hoping he would leave her to drowning her thoughts, but he persisted, now getting angry. A low growl came from behind her, and in a moment she found her seat jerked around again unceremoniously. She looked back up at his face, but this time instead of his cocksure grin, she saw his fangs bared in distaste. His arms were placed commandingly around either side of her frame, but still, all she did was blink into his expression unimpressed.

"Hey, you listen to me when I'm talkin'," he half-snarled, barely keeping his words level. "Do you even know who I am?"

"A kid," she responded instantly, flatly. She saw an angry inferno ignite behind his irises at her words. "Go and have playtime with the other kids here." Krystal made a move to spin back around again, but she was jerked back in place by one of his heavy paws grabbing her rough by the shoulder. Her hand moved instinctively to the holster on her hips, but still, it was a mere mechanical response, without fear or passion behind it.

"You little-" he started, but soon cut himself off. Krystal saw faint recognition cross his face, and after a long, dumb moment, he laughed crassly. "I know you. You were McCloud's bitch, Krystal." Krystal's hand tightened around her holster at hearing that name, feeling the rigid fabric dig into her fingers. "C'mon, don't tell me you're still crying over that pansy."

… _.What?_

Krystal heard the voice in the back of her head; faint, almost unrecognizable to her own ears. And yet it was unmistakable. After months of silence, her voice had finally spoken again. She felt an old electricity in her veins, pulsing up and down the rusted pipes of her body. Through the void that muddled her mind, a miniscule light cut through the darkness. Feeble as it was, she could recall what that emotion was. Anger.

"Don't talk about him like that," she asserted, her muscles twitching back to life after a long hibernation. "You don't have the right to talk about him like that."

The wolf barked his laugh again, squeezing harder at her shoulder, his claws digging into her skin below. "Some hero he ended up being, getting himself killed like an idiot." Every word the wolf spoke was gasoline on the embers of her heart. "Let's get out of here, and I'll show you what an _actual_ hero looks li-" the wolf's words jammed in his throat, cut off mid sentence. The cockiness evaporated from his eyes in a single breath, replaced by a blood-curdling pain that forced every muscle in his body to spasm and writhe.

Looking down, Krystal saw her knife drawn, held expertly in her grip. What came as a surprise to her was its location. She found it not lying idly in her grasp, but instead plunged straight through the wolf's right hand, pinning him to the wooden countertop below. Krystal looked back up at his face, expecting a howl from his lips, but all she saw was pure pain, and pure terror written on his expression, a silent scream coming from his mouth. Absently, she realized her telepathy had already stormed the man's mind, and subconsciously, she had cut off access to his vocal cords, leaving him mute and helpless even amidst the sea of people around him.

" _You aren't even fit to say his name,"_ the vixen whispered directly into his mind, her words boiling with pure, overflowing rage. _"You and your friends cowered in your Cornerian towers while he saved you, over and over again."_ She twisted the knife, bring a new mute cry to his face. She pulled another knife from her belt, feeling its cool plastic grip in her hands before she slammed it down into his forearm, feeling it stutter and crunch through fur, skin, muscle, artery, and bone before finally coming to a wet halt in the wood below. She felt his lukewarm blood sully her fur, but all that mattered was feeling the satisfying agony that crashed through his mind. The wolf fumbled for his gun, but she was one step ahead of him. With a single mental command, she froze his arm at his side, inhibiting him from any movement that wasn't his own panicked breathing and frantic heartbeat.

" _And now, he's dead, because I was the only one who wanted to protect him."_ She let go of the second knife rammed through him, taking her third and final knife from its holster. A moment later, its serrated edge was placed snugly against his throat, drawing a small line of blood where its point tugged at the skin. _"I should kill you. You should die for what you just said."_ The knife in her hand pressed in a little firmer, drawing fresh blood from the blade's razor edge. _"But he would have told me not to. So you can live, not because I want you to, but because he does."_

Krystal pulled the knife off of his throat. She stood up and brushed herself off, retreating from his mind and walking out all in one fluid motion. Without her in his head, she heard him fall to the ground behind her, his arm still tacked to the wood by her knives. But of course, he still had more to add to the conversation.

"I'll kill you, little piece of sh-" he started, but was slammed to a halt once again, this time, a full, excruciating scream erupting from his mouth when the vixen pulled her blaster off her hip and put a blistering round into the same arm still on the countertop. The entire room fell silent at the explosive sound, save for the whimpers of the man, his arm charred and bleeding.

"And I'm not Krystal," she said firmly, pushing through the crowd while tossing a credit chip to the shocked barmaid who had been serving her, with a healthy tip for her damages.

"My name is Kursed."

A/N: Hello everybody! So, I imagine I have a little explaining to do, after this little update… As you probably noticed, this is significantly darker than my usual update, haha. Don't worry, I'm still in love with fluff, and it's still what I'm writing with 99% of my time. However, I was just getting stuck in a rut with it, so I decided to try my hand at something that was a complete reversal from my usual stuff. I'm still working on Brace for Impact (as well as a new commissioned story!) that are both coming along very nicely.

This story will probably only be a set of three connected scenes, but we'll see how it grows or shrinks with time. Each chapter should be pretty short, only a couple thousand words, so I don't anticipate this entire story being any bigger than 10k words, if that. Anyway, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! Expect some good fluff coming your way soon :D


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